Epistles 1.14 (Creech): Villice Silvarum

YOu Steward of my Woods and pleasant Plain,
Which when I reach, I am my self again:
Contemn'd by You, tho it hath kept alone,
Five Ancient dwellers, and is often known,
To send five Senators to Baria's Town.
Come, now 'tis Time, let's see which of the Two,
I from my Mind, or from my Pastures You,
Can pluck Thorns best, and which is better Till'd,
And which is better, Horace, or his Field:
Tho Lamia's Piety, and mournful Care,
That weeps his Brother's Fate detains me here:
Yet still my Mind's abroad, my Soul doth strive,
To break the Bars and get free Room to live.
I praise the Country, You the happy Town:
He that loves others States dislikes his own:
We blame the places, both deceiv'd and Fools,
'Tis undeserv'd, the fault is in our Souls.
Our Souls that are their own Companions still,
And groan beneath their Native load of ill:
In Town your wishes beg'd the Fields and Plain,
A Farmer now You ask the Town again.
I constant to my self part griev'd from home,
When hated business forces me to Rome.
We Two do very diff'rent Things admire,
We widely disagree in our desire.
What you call lonely Melancholly Seats,
A Man of my Opinion, as he hates
What you think fair, accounts them fine retreats.
The Oyly Ord'narys the Stews do move
Thy wishes for the Town, they raise thy Love:
And' cause my little Farm doth bear no Vine,
But Frankincense, I see thy wild design:
No neighbouring Tavern there to sell thee Wine.
No wanton Songstress there to please thy Sense,
And raise thy heavy Limbs into a Dance:
Yet Thou dost Labour, thou dost Toyl and Sow,
And break thy Fields, that never felt the Plough:
Yet you take Care, you wash my bleating Flocks,
And gather boughs to feed my weary'd Ox.
And if the River run above the bound,
Swoln big with Rain, you raise a stronger Mound,
And teach it to forbear the Meadow ground.
Now why these Things so differently appear
To Us and what divides our Fancies, hear;
I that lov'd all the Frolicks of the Town,
Curl'd powder'd Locks, a fine and gawdy Gown:
That pleas'd coy Cynera without a price,
That lov'd debauch, and courted every Vice,
Now like short Suppers, and at civil hours,
And sleep by purling Streams, on Banks of Flowers,
Once to be wild is no such foul disgrace,
But 'tis so still to run the frantick Race:
There on my Joys no Squint-ey'd Envious wait,
None frowns, none looks askew, no secret hate,
With venom'd Tooth doth bite. My Neighbours smile,
To see me busie at my little Toil.
But you had rather be remov'd to Town,
That way your Mind and eager Wishes run:
The City slaves, the while the Country love,
And envy Thee, thy Garden, and thy Grove:
The Ox the Saddle asks, the Ass the Plough,
Let All (that's best) pursue the Arts they know.